


After the End

by Yossk



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 Parting Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-09 10:12:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14714105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yossk/pseuds/Yossk
Summary: “Seems to me, you’re free to go.”If only it were that easy.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This has taken me _ages_ to write. I think I knew I wanted to write something post-Parting Shot, but I didn't know quite what that would be. Several ideas got smushed together and pulled apart again, and then I left it for a couple of weeks because I needed to come back and read it fresh. But I'm here now, and I think it's turned out ok. This is part one of two, but I think I'm going to work on part two a little longer.
> 
> Please note there _are_ Infinity War spoilers - it's not a huge part of the story, but it is a huge spoiler (sorry) so please avoid if you haven't seen it and are intending to. (Although if you've waited this long - get a move on! :p ). 
> 
> I'm now up to about Episode 16 of Series 5 (nearly caught up!) so please don't spoil me in the comments!

_“Seems to me, you’re free to go.”_

If only it were that easy.

…

Time passes in the manner of a dream. The Prime Minister leaves and Coulson leaves and the President leaves and suddenly they find themselves alone, silence pressing in from four concrete walls.

“Firing squad. Siberian prison camp. Home free. Spin the wheel, what’s it gonna be?” Hunter mutters under his breath, squeezing Bobbi’s hand tightly with cuffs and chains jangling between them. “I didn’t actually mean to make that rhyme.”

She doesn’t respond, because there _is_ no response. Just a little huff of air, half a laugh, half something else. A release of some kind. They have, separately and together, prepared for their deaths so many times. Every _don’t die out there_ an acknowledgement that it could happen.

But they’ve never waited for it. Never sat in a room, chained to a table with a fluorescent light fitting flickering overhead. They’ve never allowed other people to argue and negotiate and manoeuvre to determine their fate.

“I kinda hate Coulson right now.”

Bobbi presses her lips together in what might be an attempt at a sardonic smile, “Me too.”

They don’t, not really, but hope is one of the hardest things to bear.

…

A loud gurgle breaks the silence.

Bobbi feels a laugh bubble up in her throat. She tries to hold onto it, to push it away because it’s so completely _inappropriate_ but the thought that, in the midst of life and death and potential international disaster, her body still needs something as mundane as _food_ seems hilarious. And the more she tries to stay sober, the harder it becomes until suddenly she’s giggling hysterically and it’s terrifying and all-consuming and a hair’s breadth away from crying.

Hunter is staring at her with a mixture of amusement and concern, “You alright, love?”

She nods, helplessly trying to reign back control. He lifts a hand to brush her hair out of her face, but swears quietly when he realises he can’t reach.

Bobbi takes a couple of deep breaths and swallows slowly, willing the laughter not to turn to tears. “I’m fucking starving.”

Hunter looks at her and she can see the cogs whirring in his brain, see him deciding whether it’s a step too far, too soon, too close to the line. He decides to chance it, “Mushroom soup?”

It’s the lift of an eyebrow that does it, the quirk of a smile that finally sobers her. It’s the thought of never having this again, this shorthand, this _ease_ around another person.

“No.” She shakes her head, suddenly serious, “I never want to see another mushroom in my life.”

…

_Ten years later, Bobbi picks the mushrooms out of a risotto at a wedding reception. Despite the surprising turns their lives have taken in the intervening years, they still taste of loss._

…

The day (night?) wears on.

“What do you think they’re doing?”

Bobbi shrugs, “Having a tea break.”

Hunter presses against her shoulder, aching to put an arm around her and hold her close. She’s looking down at her lap, tense and coiled and almost vibrating with impatience and dread.

“What did you do to your hand?” There’s a slightly surprised edge to her voice, as if it has only just dawned on her that she doesn’t know.

“Tried to punch a shadow muppet.”

“Ah.”

Now he thinks about it, there’s a dull ache emanating from the middle bone along the back of his hand, a fiery pull when he flexes the fingers. He tries to carry on not noticing. He doesn’t need this sort of distraction.

Bobbi takes his hand in hers, turns it over gently and feels along the swelling. There are so many things he wants to tell her, so many words fighting to trip off the edge of his tongue. He wants to tell her that he loves her, that whichever way this goes, they’ll get through it together. Even if they can’t be together any more.

Hunter imagines life alone in a Siberian prison cell, imagines the wind whistling outside and Bobbi’s unseen presence three feet or a thousand miles away. He swallows.

She looks up to find him staring at her. Her mouth quirks into the shadow of a smirk.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Bobbi sets down his hand and presses against him, shoulder to shoulder.

She knows.

…

_“We were nearly executed.”_

_It comes from nowhere, the thought spilling out into the night. The reality and the finality of it finally hitting home._

_“That wasn’t the worst part.” Hunter responds, and Bobbi’s lips tighten as her grip turns to steel._

_“No.” She says softly, “No, it wasn’t”_

…

Footsteps outside and a key turning in a lock. The scraping of rust on steel is an assault on the eardrum.

“Here we go.” It’s a whisper that echoes around both their skulls before they pull apart, expressions guarded and bodies tensed for a fight.

A metal tray slams down on the table between them and a bag drops at their feet. The man walks around towards them.

“What happens now?” Bobbi’s voice is steady.

The man gestures at the tray, and then the bag, not meeting their eyes, “Eat. Get dressed. Then we go.”

“Go where?”

“Airport.”

He leans down and releases them both from the table, taking the handcuffs with him as he locks the door behind him.

Bobbi puts her hands on the pockmarked surface, feels herself slump backwards in her chair. All the breath leaves her body as the tension holding her upright starts to leak away.

And then Hunter throws his arms around her and practically launches himself into her lap. She squeaks in surprise and lets out a small gasp of laughter. His hand snakes around her side, pulling her towards him, and then there’s a piercing, stabbing sensation.

Her sudden intake of breath is quiet but sharp and he pulls back.

“You alright, love?”

“Yeah.” She takes a breath, “Steel-toe-capped boots, meet ribs.”

“Anything broken?” She sees him tense, a flash of anger appearing in his eyes before he very deliberately lets it go.

She tips her head to one side slightly, before shaking it, “Don’t think so.” And takes a few shallow, steady breaths whilst Hunter continues nuzzling into her neck, his hands gentle this time, feather-light up her side. She feels herself start to smile, “This is really not the time.”

He pulls away with a huff of mock-exasperation and pokes tentatively at one of the bowls of stew set in front of them. It’s the colour of dishwater and seems to be mainly composed of cabbage, “Well, this looks tasty.”

“Yum.”

There’s a giddiness to both of them, a delirium born of three days without sleeping in a proper bed or eating a proper meal. And the sudden reprieve from execution probably has a part to play too.

Hunter tastes a spoonful of stew and pulls a face, “I really hope this isn’t my last meal.”

…

_“What’s that?” She points at the bag of vegetables he’s unpacking on the counter._

_“Cabbage.”_

_“Nuh-uh, no way.”_

_“Oh, come on, I’ll fry it up with bacon.” He roots around in the bottom drawer, “Where have you hidden the garlic? Call it exposure therapy, it’ll be tasty.”_

_Bobbi still looks unconvinced, her expression an almost child-like look of disgust. He stands up and loops a hand around her waist, planting a light kiss on her cheek, “I promise.”_

_“You better.”_

…

They dress. Back into the black jeans and sweaters they pulled on a van in Taipei, two (three?) days ago. Everything’s sweaty and musty, and their pockets have been emptied, but anything’s better than the scratchy cotton of a green jumpsuit. Anything’s better than the clothes others have almost certainly been sent to their deaths in.

Neither of them has any desire to sit back behind the table they’ve been chained to for the past several hours, looking up at people standing around them like naughty school children behind a desk. And so Bobbie perches on it, moving slowly to avoid shifting her ribs, toes scuffing against the ground.

“You think…?”

Hunter shrugs, leaning against the wall, “They’re gonna try and knock us off before we make it to the airport…?” He shrugs slowly, “I’d say we’ve got a fighting chance. They’re out of inhumans.” He’s smirking slightly, trying to make light of it, bringing it back to him and her and their bodies against the world, without power and politics hamstringing them at every turn.

“That we know of.” Bobbi mutters darkly, but she feels herself smile all the same. With Coulson gone, and SHIELD out of the firing line, they’re free. If they’re going to go down, they can at least go down fighting.

She continues, “Anyway, that suit…Coulson, was it? Seemed like he knew what he was doing.” She plays the part, even now, assuming someone’s watching, “I think we’ll be ok.”

…

_“Hi. My name is Phil Coulson.”_

_“Pleasure to meet you, Sir.”_

_“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright.”_

_Bobbi nods slowly, playing along and waiting for the out. Waiting for her chance to tell him to leave without them. But this time Coulson’s right-hand doesn’t reach for his left, the camera keeps running, and there’s no help coming._

_He leans over the table, face contorting into a sneer, “Which of you is going to die first?”_

_She feels her stomach slowly freezing over, feels bile rising in her throat, “Coulson—“_

_“You betrayed me, Morse, did you really think I forgave you?”_

_“No, we—“ She swallows and Hunter is staring at her in horror. It can’t happen like this. “Coulson, please—”_

_Bobbi wakes with a gasp at the back of her throat and stares hard at the ceiling. Hunter stirs beside her, rolling over and curling into her warmth._

_She swallows, closes her eyes, and tries to sleep._

…

They sit in the back of a blacked-out van for what feels like hours, stopping and starting and jolting their way across the barren country.

It was dark outside when they left Interpol, and it’s still dark (or, perhaps, dark again) when they stagger out onto a tiny snowswept airfield. The plane bounces giddily down the runway, jumping hesitantly into the air, and whilst it’s not the most terrifying flight either of them have ever experienced, it’s not exactly restful either.

The sun comes up eventually, a searingly blue sky pouring bright daylight in through the circular windows. The new dawn feel like a bonus, something neither of them had really expected to see.

They hold hands and don’t let go.

…

_“Bobbi.”_

_“Mm?”_

_“Ow.”_

_“What?” She asks distractedly, and then looks down at his hand, which is slowly turning white and tingly in her grip, “Woops, sorry.” She let’s go suddenly, looking sheepish, and continues to twirl spaghetti on her fork with her other hand, “I was thinking about something else.”_

_Hunter grins, “Well, try not to amputate me next time.”_

…

Moscow airport at 6am with no sleep is a bewildering and confusing place. They’re escorted through security under armed guard, yawning vacationers pausing to stare in the middle of sorting their liquids into little plastic bags. The pin in Bobbi’s knee sets off the metal detector, and she has to talk fast in Russian to avoid being carted off somewhere _again._

They enter the plane ahead of the other passengers, settled into window and middle seat with an escort in the aisle.

“Where are we going?” Bobbi asks, hoping that speaking Russian might get more than a monosyllabic response.

“America.” The man shrugs.

She could press further but, in the end, it doesn’t really matter. They have to start from nothing, wherever they end up. The pilot soon announces their destination, anyway.

New York isn’t somewhere that holds anything for either of them, but at least it’s vaguely familiar. Arriving at JFK might feel something like arriving home. 

“I’ve never been deported before,” Hunter mutters in her ear, “I do enjoy new experiences.” He struggles out of his sweater, uses it to pillow his head against the window, and promptly falls asleep.

Bobbi’s never been deported either, and nor has she ever come quite so close to facing a firing squad. But she has lost everything she ever trusted and had faith in in a couple of hours before, so that should be nothing new.

They take off with a sickening rumble and the taste of recycled air. The in-flight meal is nothing special, but it’s food, and so Bobbi devours it before lifting the armrest, leaning against Hunter and closing her eyes.

She falls not quite into sleep, but into a stupor, brain finally too exhausted to do anything else.

…

I should call Mack, _Bobbi thinks, as she browses groceries months later,_ It’s been ages. _And then she stops in the cereal aisle, pausing to let a wave of grief break over her. It never stops, her mind constantly trying to trick her into thinking that ‘never’ really means ‘someday’, and then she has to feel it all over again._

_Later that week, she snaps a photograph of two pigeons fornicating on the tree outside their window because she knows Daisy would find it hilarious. The image stays on her phone for close to a year, waiting to make the journey, before she finally deletes it._

_…_

They’re given back the contents of their pockets at the other end of the flight, a little plastic bag each. Or, most of it. Phones, passports, a bit of lose change and a stray pen. Their weapons and tech are clearly lost forever, Bobbi’s batons likely even now being studied by Russian engineers for replication.

The phones were wiped remotely by Daisy as soon as they were taken into custody, now full of useless, fictional contacts and nonsense Whatsapp exchanges. Hunter browses morosely through his contacts, “Apparently I know someone called ‘Fat Steve’,” he mutters into her ear.

Passport control has been warned of their coming, and they make it through without incident. There was a part of both of them expecting to be arrested again at this end, that they’d become a problem the US government would want to sweep under the carpet somewhere. But Coulson is extremely good at these games. They are, truly, home free.

They stand on the other side of arrivals, surrounded by crying relatives and over-excited children, buffeted by trollies full of suitcases rushing to and fro.

Hunter turns to look at Bobbi, her bewilderment and hesitation reflected in his eyes, “What now?”

“Cheeseburger?” Bobbi asks, a careful smile behind her eyes.

It seems as good an idea as any.

…

_“Cheeseburger?” She asks, whenever the world becomes a little too much. It’s a breathing space, a chance to think ‘What now?’_

_Years later, when the news is full of wizards and spaceship and aliens (again), when Hunter crumbles to dust in front of her eyes and she feels her heart be torn out of her chest, because she tried to give her life for his once already and why wasn’t it enough? Why is it never enough?_

_Then that ridiculous word, that ridiculous idea conceived a lifetime ago, it cycles around her head and she wants to tell her brain to just shut up, to shut it out, because it can’t help her now._

_Bobbi throws a chair at the wall and sinks to her knees._

_They’d always known this was coming, one way or another._

_She’d just hoped they’d have more time._

_…_

They find a Shake Shack in arrivals, no curly fries, but the burgers are hot, and try to plan out the rest of their lives.

“We seem to be left with homelessness or a life of crime,” says Hunter, as he surveys all their worldly belongings laid out on the table in front of them.

Bobbi glances over his shoulder, at the CIA agent who followed them through the airport and is now not-so-subtly watching them from the Starbucks across the way, chewing thoughtfully on a mouthful of fries.

“Life of crime is more appealing, but we’ll have to lose the tail first.” She mutters back.

When Hunter next looks up, there’s a woman making a beeline towards them through the crowds, “Heads up.” He inclines his head towards her, and Bobbi glances over her shoulder, does a double-take, and then turns back around, trying very hard not to laugh.

Hunter just raises an eyebrow at her, “Play along, then?”

She nods slightly, and her expression returns to one of exhausted neutrality.

“Mr and Mrs Hartley?” The woman’s voice is high and nasal, bottle blonde hair and a slight air of scattiness about her.

Bobbi nods and stands up.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” the woman gushes, “The traffic was appalling.” She takes in the scattered remnants of burgers still in evidence on their trays, “Are you ready to leave?”

“Just a sec.” Hunter swallows rapidly, and then gathers up the loose change and detritus from the table top, tucking it all into his jacket pocket.

“We’re parked on Level 3.” The woman throws over her shoulder, as they pass through the sliding doors and out onto the sidewalk. It’s heaving with people: businessmen and women rushing past with briefcases; families heaving trollies of suitcases, and parents grabbing on to stray children. There’s clamour and noise and _life_ to it.

Hunter pauses for a moment, lifting his face up to the sky. The day is grey and overcast, the air heavy and oppressive.  The rolling clouds and cool wind threaten a downpour. Bobbi stops a few paces ahead and glances back. She quirks an eyebrow at him and cracks a smile before they both barrel onwards.

…

_After living for so long in a mostly windowless bunker, the concept of_ weather _takes a little getting used to. The sounds of rain pummelling the roof, or wind rattling through an open window are strange and unnatural, waking them both in the night._

_The dawn sun streaming in through the curtains in the morning however, that is something Bobbi has missed more than she would have believed. Hunter rolls over and hides his head under the pillow, but she turns into it, absorbing the colour and life of another day._

…

As they pull away in a non-descript hatchback in short-term parking, their companion’s voice drops at least a register, “We’ve got you an apartment in Harlem. It’s not much…” She shrugs, “But you didn’t give us much notice.”

“ _We_ didn’t give you any notice.” Bobbi responds, and the woman just smirks slightly, catching Hunter’s eye briefly in the rear view mirror and raising an eyebrow.

Hunter’s head is starting to feel like cotton wool, like his senses are being assaulted from the other side of a fog. He idly wanders what day it is.

Bobbi breaks the silence after a few moments, “I thought we were strictly _personas non grata_ to government agencies.”

The woman shakes her head slightly, “We’re not a government agency. Not anymore.” Her lip quirks slightly, “Also, I’m extremely careful.”

 “I hate to break it you, love,” Hunter interjects from the backseat, “But we’ve had a tail since we got off the plane.”

The woman just smiles, “They’re both dealt with.”

He feels like he should have an answer to that, like there’s a pattern to the banter and he’s just out of step. He should probably also be at least a little more curious as to who this woman actually is, and where they’re going. But his brain’s whirring a little too slowly and his last reserves of _giving a shit_ are fast whittling away.

He watches Bobbi in the passenger seat as she runs a hand through her hair and grimaces at the tangles. He watches the tension slowly leak out of her shoulders and listens to the cadence of her voice as she gives their driver the edited highlights of their fall from grace.

He breathes deeply.

They have more days.

…

_A one-bed apartment, a hot shower, food in the fridge. A good night’s sleep, and their personal effects arriving in a series of oddly shaped parcels over several months. It’s a lot to be grateful for._

_Bobbi drifts through setting up fake-ID’s and bank accounts and utilities bills with half her mind always on something else. Hunter picks up groceries and makes sure they both eat at vaguely regular intervals and that vegetables are, occasionally, part of their diet._

_The swelling in his hand eventually goes down, the bone stitching itself back together only slightly crooked. Bobbi rolls over idly to look at the alarm clock one morning and misses the ache stretching across her ribs._

_They keep going, keep busy, keep pretending there’s something important to do, but a constant refrain echoes in the backs of both their minds._

_“What now?”_

…

“So.” Hunter says meaningfully as they cross the threshold, “Do I get to know who that was?”

Bobbi flicks a light switch, and a bare bulb illuminates the carpeted hallway, “Who?” she says distractedly, “Oh, her name’s Natasha.” There’s a slight glint in her eye as she says it, but he’s too exhausted to work out what that might mean.

They both stare longingly at the shower, before deciding that would be too much effort, and collapsing fully dressed on top of the bed.

 Hunter wraps himself around her, breathing in sweat and dust.

“Love you.” He mutters in her ear.

“Love you too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobbi’s feet pound the pavement. Around the block, through the park, up the hill. As far and as fast as she can go before pinging back like a boomerang to the apartment which is not yet a home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the double-posting - I put this up yesterday and then decided that a) It made more sense as two chapters than as a series and b) that I wanted to make some (fairly minor) edits. 
> 
> Anyway, no spoilers for anything except AoS in this chapter, and I'm finally caught up (woop!) so no worries about spoiling me either! I did, however, write most of this before I saw _Rewind_ , so it is ever so slightly inconsistent with that, but nothing major I don't think.
> 
> Bonus points for anyone who notices the (entirely unintentional) reference to _The Last Five Years.._.

Bobbi’s feet pound the pavement. Around the block, through the park, up the hill. As far and as fast as she can go before pinging back like a boomerang to the apartment which is not yet a home.

“I was thinking…” Hunter calls from the kitchen, as the front door slams shut behind her and she pauses to let her breathing even out and wonder if the ache in her knee is anything she should be worried about. He pops his head around the door, flicking on the hall light to see her face, “What about London?”

“What about it?”

Bobbi straightens up, slipping off her sneakers and following him into the kitchen. She surveys the mess of not-quite-unpacked belongings and starts to feel hemmed in again, the effects of the run and the sweat and the cool outside air quickly falling away.

“Nice river, good bars, lots of people. Somewhere we could get lost in.” Hunter’s eyes are fixed on her as he hands her a glass of water from the tap, a casual grin playing around his mouth. Bobbi stares at him over the rim of the glass.

“I mean, I know it’s not exotic, but at least I speak the language.”

A crease appears between her eyebrows, and she sets the tumbler down on the table with a sharp tap, “Hunter, back up a second. Are we talking about this seriously now? Is this a serious suggestion?”

“Er… Yeah.” He seems to look at her properly then, finally take in her expression, “Why do you look terrifying?”

Bobbi stares at him for a full ten seconds, heart still hammering, breathing still a little too fast. “I thought you… Did you really…?” She’s temporarily lost for words, “We can’t go to London. _I_ can’t go to London.”

“Look, I know we were all sun and sea and distant desert islands, but come on, we’ll be bored out of our minds in three days.” He comes around the table towards her, rests a hand on her waist, “We need somewhere new. I really think this might be good for us.”

“Hunter, stop.” She pushes him away a little too hard. He’s so full of hope and she hates that she has to be the one to burst his bubble, hates that he makes her be the adult in the situation. “Listen to me. I _can’t_ go to London.”

“Why not?”

“Think it through. We have CIA agents following us whilst we buy our groceries. We’re one misstep away from being convicted terrorists. Your _mother country’s_ not going to just hand me a visa and welcome me in with open arms. We’re not going anywhere.” She takes another step back from him, anger and frustration and impotence finally spilling over, “Or, at least, I’m not. Take your passport and go if you want. I’m going to take a shower.”

 …

 The water isn’t hot enough. It’s lukewarm at best and the pressure’s insufficient to soak through Bobbi’s hair. She tips her head back, closes her eyes and waits, listening to the knocking of the pipes until she finally feels the familiar weight of it tugging at her scalp.

She’s shivering by the time she steps out, hair washed and conditioned and some way past damp. Her temperature’s dropped faster than it should have, goosebumps standing up on her arms as she pulls a towel tightly around her chest and wraps another around her hair. The anger’s worn away and she feels drained, exhausted by the thought of just how much they have to re-build.

Hunter’s sitting on the bed, waiting.

“I’m an idiot.”

Bobbi feels herself smile, “Yes, you are.”

“Sorry.” He lifts a hand and tugs her towards him, standing up and wrapping his arms around her, holding on as if for dear life.

She lets her hands clasp loosely behind his back, “What’s up?”

“You got me thinking…”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Shut up.”

Bobbi laughs into his ear, “Go on.”

“I’m really glad I got my citizenship.”

She hums in response, arms tightening around his shoulders, the image of the Atlantic Ocean sitting between them pinging to the forefront of her mind. They’ve lost so much, and yet they still have so much left to lose. It’s hard, sometimes, to remember how to hold on to what you have.

“So. How do you feel about Nebraska?”

“I hate Nebraska.”

“Kentucky?”

Bobbi attempts to pull away and punch him lightly on the shoulder, but he clings on, pulling her with him as they both tumble backwards onto the bed.

“Ohio?”

“I am never, ever going back to Ohio. And give me back my towel.”

 …

 “Come on, sweetheart. I promise I won’t hurt you.”

Bobbi just laughs humourlessly and throws the man to the mat a little harder than necessary. He scrambles to his feet, she’s forgotten his name already, and tries not to let his comrades standing around the gym see how she’d twisted his arm nearly to breaking point as he fell.

She raises an eyebrow at him, “Best of three?”

“Sure.” He nods with a smirk, and he’s a little more cautious this time, a little less sure of himself, but she’s tired of messing around and she just wants this to be over.

_Bang._ Scramble. _Bang._

He goes down twice more before he decides he’s had enough, before he realises that she’s holding back and he can keep going all he wants, but it’s just going to bring more humiliation. He swears at her, and calls her a whore, and she’s not quite sure how he makes that connection, but she just laughs and turns away, goes back to punching the bag in front of her with everything she’s got.

It’s becoming a hobby, of sorts, a way to release the anger she’s dragged back from a warehouse in Spain, via a compound in Siberia. And it’s how she finds herself, quite unintentionally, being offered a job. The guy who normally takes Jujutsu classes is indisposed, or so the man who approaches her tells her. _Boy, really_ , she thinks, and he’s a bit vague about it, but she gets the impression it’s something serious, that he won’t be active again for a while.

So she shrugs, and nods and no-one asks for ID or certification, they just take the fact that she’s standing there, that there’s a clear circle around her six feet wide, that no-one calls her ‘sweetheart’ anymore without the whole gym freezing and turning to watch, as qualification enough.

She offers herself as a personal trainer too, and it fills her days and keep the bills paid and food in the fridge. She pushes and pushes, sometimes a little too hard, forgetting that for these people there’s no sniper on the roof, no bomb about to go off, no assailant waiting around the corner with a knife. They’re not going to wake up in a warehouse with needles being pushed under their fingernails because their attention wavered, just for a second.

It fills her days and keeps her body occupied, if not her mind.

“You could do better. You speak, like, six languages.” Hunter tells her, time and time again, but she just scoffs because that’s not the point, and how can he talk, anyway? He takes work on building sites, lugging bags of cement around for a day rate and a free beer. Scraping his knuckles and numbing his mind, arriving home sweaty and exhausted, just like her.

“Seven.” She says, holding up a fist, “And I’m using one of them.”

“You have a freaking PhD.” He nags at her a few weeks later, as she chops vegetables for dinner, hovering over her shoulder and correcting her technique until she wants to stab him with the paring knife.

_Glass is too fragile_ she thinks, _it breaks when you push too hard._

 …

In the middle of the night, Hunter wakes suddenly to an empty bed. Bobbi’s stood by the window, ghostly pale in the moonlight. He rolls slowly off the mattress and moves to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his head on her shoulder.

“Trouble sleeping?”

“Mmm.” She nods vaguely in response.

He kisses her shoulder, the scar where a bullet went straight through and nearly took her with it. She shivers, almost imperceptibly.

The night is quiet, a brief lull in the rumble of vehicles sailing by in the street below.

“Where are you?”

“Oh, nowhere,” She turns to him with a smile as fake as the first three fingernails on her right hand.

“Don’t Bob, don’t pretend.” He feels it, the way they’re circling each other, constantly spiralling downwards and not quite meeting, not quite connecting in the middle. He can’t bear the thought of losing her again.

Bobbi sighs, a slow expulsion of air and energy, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head on his shoulder. He would be relieved, except he knows she’s just trying to hide her face.

“Remember Bogata?” She mutters against his ear.

“Elena and the man with laser eyes? How could I forget?”

“I dreamt about it.”

Hunter squeezes her gently, arms tightening around her waist. He does remember. In so many ways it was just another mission. But in others, when they were both lying powerless and paralysed, helpless on the floor. In that way, it wasn’t.

Bobbi pulls back, shaking her head, a smile finding its way back into her features, cynical and real and terrifying. “I miss it, Hunter. I dreamt about it, and I woke up, and my first thought was that I missed it.”

“Bob…”

“What? We both could’ve died. They threatened to torture you if I didn’t talk. And _I miss it._ There’s something wrong with me.” She pulls away completely then, stepping back against the windowsill with her arms crossed in front of her. She’s pulling away and protecting herself and waiting for him to leave.

Hunter watches her, and he doesn’t understand how someone who is so perceptive about just about everyone else always manages to miss the things standing right in front of her. He sighs, “I miss it too. I mean, not the man with laser eyes, that was fucking terrifying and, honestly, I think there probably is something wrong with you but…” There’s a little sparkle of mirth in his eyes, “…in that case, there’s something wrong with me too.”

She shakes her head, “You wanted to leave.”

He wants to shake her out of this, ask her why it always seems to take a near-death experience to get them communicating properly, to get them back on the same page.

“Yeah.” He responds impatiently, “Take a break, go on holiday, remember how to be together without someone pointing a gun at our heads.” His voice is rising, almost reaching a shout of frustration, “I didn’t mean forever. I didn’t mean losing the only friends we have who aren’t dead or working for Hydra.” She’s still looking at him sceptically, still closing herself off and he finally loses his self-control, “ _For God’s sake, Bob, you’re not the only one who lost something!”_

He sees the moment her mask breaks, watches her shaking her head and trying to smile as she blinks away tears. This is a first, for them. He’s seen her cry, of course he has, but she does it privately and quietly. Her anger has always been bigger, her rage and her strength keeping her going and going until she can find somewhere dark and alone to let out her grief. His anger deflates as fast as it arrived.

“Bob, I didn’t mean to…” He stops, and sighs, “Come here.”

Bobbi cries for what feels like days, soaking through Hunter’s t-shirt. She never did cry for Tripp. Or for Izzy or Idaho. There was Daisy and then real-SHIELD and then Ward and Kara _and then and then and then_ on forever, until suddenly they find themselves here, alone, and there’s nothing to do _but_ mourn.

“This is wrong.”

“What do you mean?”

“We survived, and we’re home.” She shrugs, “I don’t deserve to feel like this.”

Hunter’s brow furrows, “That’s stupid and you know it.”

They’ve somehow ended up on the floor under the window, wedged between the bed and the wall, watching as the room slowly lightens and soft-greys turn to technicolour.

He takes her hand in his, “We’ve got all the time in the world. Cry for as long as you want.”

She laughs, wet and teary and exhausted, and then tips her head back against the wall, “Fuck, I miss them.”

Hunter finally lets his own tears fall as he thinks about the family that, for one glorious moment, was theirs.

“Me too.”

…

Bobbi keeps fighting people who don’t know what a real fight is, pushing herself as hard as she can with a focus that terrifies anyone who sees it.

Hunter keeps shifting and carrying, pouring his blood and his sweat into something that is permanent and real.

They come home and they cook and they watch TV and it's over. There's no crisis to be averted, no call to arms in the middle of the night.

But they don’t fight about it anymore.

…

They hear whisper of the Accords at the same time as the rest of the country, reading between the lines of the evening news.

“I wouldn’t like to be on the wrong side of Daisy right now.” Hunter mutters from his side of the sofa, warming his feet between Bobbi’s thighs, a beer apiece set on the floor at either end.

She shakes her head, mouth tight, “I don’t like where this is going.”

They watch Natasha Romanoff and Tony Stark arrive in Vienna, watch them manoeuvre their way through the ranks of politicians, giving lip service to accountability, to trust.

“I still can’t believe she’s the Black Widow. She looks like a school teacher.”

“I’ll tell her you said that.” Bobbi laughs for a second, her expression lifting momentarily.

And then the UN headquarters explodes, and they’re powerless to do anything but watch the chaos unfold.

…

There’s a knock at the door, a file and a box left on the door-step, no return address.

A note’s stuck to the top: _Thought you might be bored._

Bobbi picks the parcel up gingerly. She thinks she recognises the handwriting, but she’s still cautious as she lays it out on the kitchen table.

“Any ideas?” asks Hunter, coming up behind her and examining it carefully.

She narrows her eyes slightly, “A few.”

“Any of them good?”

“Depends on your definition of good." A smirk plays around her mouth as she carefully tears at the seal and pulls the box open.

Hunter cranes his neck to see inside, “Huh.” He picks up the file, “I suppose we have homework.”

Bobbi pulls the batons out of the top of the box and spins them thoughtfully, “I suppose we do.”


End file.
